


Sons and Revenants

by Grond



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Adopted Children, Baby Legolas Greenleaf, Blood, Canon - Book, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Caring Thranduil, Caves, First Age, Good Parent Thranduil, Grief/Mourning, Hunters & Hunting, Kinslaying (Tolkien), M/M, Mental Health Issues, Minor Original Character(s), Mirkwood, POV Thranduil, Parent Thranduil, Protective Thranduil, Revenants, Silvan elves, Sindarin, Spiders, The Sindar, Third Age, Trouble, Walks In The Woods, references to murder
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-17 07:29:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28845366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grond/pseuds/Grond
Summary: A mystery has come to the Greenwood: something—or someone—is slaying the great spiders with mad abandon. Thranduil is not sorry to see the creatures slain, but he must learn what force is responsible and keep it in check. For the spiders are vengeful, and the safety of his people comes first.What Thranduil does not expect is that the identity of the killer will not only alter the very future of the Greenwood, but his own life, and that of his young son.
Relationships: Legolas Greenleaf & Thranduil, Oropher & Thranduil (Tolkien), Thranduil/Celegorm | Turcafinwë
Comments: 60
Kudos: 85





	1. Slayer of Spiders

**Author's Note:**

> Just for fun, I'm holding off on tagging the mystery Elf until his identity is revealed in the story itself. However, there are a few clues in the narrative. As soon as Thranduil realizes who it is, I will add the relevant tags!
> 
> If the unknown identity concerns anyone, feel free to let me know, but the character in question doesn't require any additional warnings. I would have included that, if necessary.

The lights of the great hall were low, and the silver goblet in his hand gleamed but faintly as Thranduil ran his fingertip around its lip. Again and again, he drew a perfect circle on the metal rim as he gazed down upon the dark surface of the wine within. Gradually, shapes formed within the red darkness of the liquid. The images were indistinct at first, but grew clearer by the moment as Thranduil focused on them and continued to move his finger steadily in that same, even, circular motion.

At last, he made out a vision of his hunters traveling through the wood. They moved slowly, so much more drained and battered than they had been when they had departed from his Halls. They had been well-rested and bright-eyed then, but now their faces were weary, and more than half of them were visibly bruised or wounded. They carried something between them on a makeshift stretcher, but it was obscured, and Thranduil could not tell what they brought with them. He quickly counted the hunters. To his relief, he found that their number had not been reduced. All who had departed were returning, still on their feet. He smiled faintly, glad of that, though he was less pleased by the battered state of them. They had the air of Elves returning from a great battle, an air he knew well. 

He hated to see even one of his people harmed. He frowned, and the vision disappeared from his cup. His was a simple form of scrying, which could show him events of the present from afar—but only those involving people or places he knew well. He had learned this art from his father, who had learned it directly from King Thingol himself. 

Thranduil had sent out a party of his finest hunters to help him solve a mystery that had troubled him for the past several weeks. His scouts had been finding large numbers of the great spiders dead. Their ends had obviously not been peaceful ones. Thranduil was not sorry to see the spiders slain, but their deaths posed the question: what being had entered his wood that was powerful enough to kill the spiders so handily? Thranduil did not like the idea of such a force present in his lands without his leave or his knowledge. 

Thranduil took a thoughtful sip from his cup. As troubling as the unknown identity of the killer was the fact that the upswing in deaths had not passed unnoticed by the spiders themselves. They had come forth in greater numbers—more widespread and more aggressive than usual, as if they sought vengeance for the deaths of their kin. The spiders were a relatively recent and unwelcome arrival to Eryn Galen. His people found their occupation difficult enough to suffer without the added concern of a surge in hostilities. They had already lost too much.

Thranduil needed to deal with the encroaching enemies strategically. The sheer unthinking violence with which the spiders were being slaughtered could in no way be considered "strategic". No, it was very much the opposite—which was why he and his advisors could not say for certain whether their unknown spider-killer was a beast or a person.

It was possible that his hunters carried the killer back with them, but Thranduil's vision had shown him only that they carried _something_ , and had offered no clear clue as to what it was. Thranduil could have tried scrying again for a better look, but he had seen enough to know that the hunting party was drawing near. Soon they would be here, and he would know for certain what they brought with them. He should prepare himself.

He rose to his feet, leaving his cup of wine behind. He left the great hall, but he did not approach the great, stone doors through which the coming party would pass. Instead, he took a path deeper into the caves. The cool air against his skin calmed him. These caves provided his people with safety and shelter in uncertain times, and he was grateful to them. They were not so grand or so vast as the caves of Menegroth, but in the end, had not the very grandness of Menegroth brought its lords grief? He had loved Doriath well as a child, but he loved Eryn Galen more, and he did not long for any other land. This was his true home, and those who lived here were his own people. 

The armory had its own thick, stone doors. They opened for Thranduil, because they knew him. He was greeted there by the face of his father. A sculpture of Oropher stood close to the entrance, crowned with stone beech leaves. Across Oropher's outstretched stone arms lay his sword, safe within its sheath. Thranduil had brought it back from the battlefield. He paused to study his father's features. The statue was an excellent likeness, so much so that it brought Thranduil equal measures of joy and grief to look upon it. Oropher's expression was grave, but his eyes and lips hinted at a smile mere moments away—a smile that was always promised, which would never come.

Thranduil stepped closer to the stone Oropher. Leaning in briefly, he brushed his lips against his father's cold cheek. His father's statue carried only his father's weapons, and they were not what he needed on this day. Instead, his steps brought him to the wall behind the statue. There, among other weapons, he located a long knife and lifted it carefully from its mount.

He unsheathed the weapon. The runes hidden within the designs on the ornamented blade read _Lossë_. The knife was as bright and white as the snow it had been named for. He understood the blade was one of a pair, but he had never seen its lost sibling, _Fain_. The fate of that weapon was unknown. Lossë was the work of the Smith of Nan Elmoth. It had special properties, which could be advantageous today. Thranduil resheathed it and attached the sheath to his belt.

As he left the armory, the door swung shut behind him. He stilled, as he heard the soft thunder of footsteps approaching. He waited, until a tiny form barrelled around the corner, charging at him. It did not stop until it had collided with his legs and announced triumphantly, "Ada!"

Thranduil reached down to stroke his son's fair hair as Legolas gripped his leg tightly. "Well, Little Leaf, you've caught me. Well done."

Legolas nodded fiercely, tightening his grip to the limits of his strength. In another moment, the expected attendant arrived, his head lowered respectfully, face half-hidden by his chestnut hair. Maeven was one of a small coterie of Elves who had been assigned to guard and care for Legolas. It was no small task, as Legolas was given to adventuring and had to know and see everything there was to be known or seen. "Apologies, my lord. Legolas was insistent on finding you. I told him—"

"It is no matter. I am very pleased to be found, in this case." Thranduil took hold of Legolas and lifted him up, at which point the child finally, reluctantly, let go of his leg. "He is already a fine tracker." Legolas' bright gaze was fixed on him, and Thranduil pressed a kiss to his forehead. 

Legolas laughed. "Ada, I wanted to see you."

"And so you have. I'm glad to see you, too. It is about time for you to rest, is it not?"

Legolas shook his head. "I don't want to rest. I want to stay with you."

"I would much rather stay with you, too, but we both have our duties. You understand, don't you?"

After a hesitation, the Elfling nodded. "Yes, Ada."

"I will take him to his rooms, my lord," said the attendant.

"Yes, make sure he rests safely, until morning." 

The words, simple as they were, had an immediate effect on Maeven, whose eyes widened. This exact phrase was a signal to indicate that there was possible danger, and that the prince should be kept under guard. "Of course, he will be safe and sound."

Thranduil passed his son to the now-worried attendant. Thranduil had not given the signal for the greatest possible danger. There was no immediate threat to him or his people, but something unknown was in his realm, and it was drawing near. It was better to take more precautions than necessary, than to take less. Legolas grabbed at his wrist, and Thranduil took hold of his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. "I'll come to see you in the morning. Can you wait for me until then?"

"Yes, Ada."

"If you sleep, it will be as if no time has passed before I visit."

"A little time," Legolas corrected.

Thranduil laughed. Legolas had a way of bringing light into the dark. "Yes, but only a very little." He gave Maeven a nod and what he meant to be a reassuring look. 

Maeven nodded in return. Thranduil could tell from the steely look in the attendant's eyes that he was ready to give his life in defense of the prince, if need be. Thranduil hoped there would be no need.

As the attendant departed with Legolas in his arms, Thranduil frowned anew. If they were bringing the Spider-Slayer to the Halls, then why? If it was dangerous, surely they would have neutralized the threat or expelled it from his kingdom. The spiders that they had found dead had not been killed by any weapon. No, it was as if they had been torn to pieces by a great force. A great force that opposed the spiders, yes—but its opposition to the spiders did not mean it was a friend to the Elves. 

He would have to trust in them. He did not believe his hunters would behave rashly where the safety of their people and the residence of their king were concerned. He returned to his great hall to await them, resting a hand on the knife at his side as he ascended the dais and took his seat upon his throne. The weapon was silent and still, which reassured him, although he remained troubled by the enigma and the question of how it should be dealt with. With each choice he made, he remembered that the protection of his people was crucial—held above any other concern, including his own safety. The duties of a king were ever complicated, but he had never expected them to be otherwise. He had learned the tragedy of kingship when he was yet a child.

Thranduil was not kept waiting long. What he had foreseen soon came to pass. Tobrien, the leader of the hunting party, appeared before him. Where his own people were concerned, Thranduil had little time or use for escorts and formal announcements. If one of his warriors wished to approach his throne, they could do so directly. The Elves dwelling here knew each other well, and guards allowed hunters to pass without issue. 

"My lord, we have returned with news," Tobrien said, lowering her head briefly before straightening to regard him directly. "Our mission was a success." Her hair had come free from its braids, and her clothes were torn, but apart from a fresh bruise on her temple, she appeared unharmed.

"I am glad to see you back." He was relieved to hear this confirmation that all who had left the Halls had returned safely. A mission during which a hunter was lost would not be deemed a success by any measure.

"We found the one you bid us seek."

"I am eager to hear what you've learned."

She hesitated. "My lord, in the deep wood, we tracked the creature, and we discovered—an Elf."

The destroyed spiders had been torn apart, without the use of a weapon. An Elf would have had to use bare hands or teeth to do that. It had always been a possibility that one of his own kind was responsible for the violence, but he had not deemed it the most likely one. "An Elf," he said slowly.

"I—yes, it is. But my lord, I have never seen an Elf like this." Her words came quick and urgent. "He was so difficult to track. The way he moved, so swift and light—and when he finally reached him, he seemed to have lost all reason. We spoke to him, but he did not listen. He had no speech, and there was a light upon him."

The news she brought him did not clarify the issue. It deepened his uncertainty. "What kind of light?"

"I do not know how to explain it. He is—covered in soil, but a light shines from him." 

"And you brought him here?"

She did not question the fact that he knew something of their movements. His people were accustomed to his scrying. "My lord, we had to. There was a madness on him. We could not leave alone him in that state. He is an Elf."

She did not need to explain further. Elves were of one kin. They were not to injure each other, but to help each other—although that great and natural law had not always been obeyed. Thranduil would not defy that law. His gaze went to the bruise on her brow. "He harmed you."

"Yes, he fought to free himself. I do not think he intended to harm us, or—he would have dealt us greater harm. We had to use our darts on him, but my lord, we used so many." Her gaze on him was beseeching. She sought his guidance and wisdom in the face of the impossible. "We began to think we would not be able to stop him."

The darts of the hunters were coated in a clever concoction, to be used when the desired result was not to kill, but to bring sleep. It should take no more than a few of them to make any single Elf lose consciousness. Thranduil touched his fingers to the knife again, but it gave no sign that an enemy was near.

"The others are still with him, outside," said Tobrien. "We do not know how long it will be before he will wake."

This was Thranduil's decision to make. He did not hesitate. "Find a place in the cellars to secure him. The stoutest of the storerooms. I will speak to him when he wakes."

"It will be done, my lord."

There were no dungeons within their caves. The Silvan Elves had not had cause to imprison any of the Free Peoples of Middle Earth. Thranduil would not have done so without great cause. There was reason enough for wariness in this case: he had found an Elf where no Elf should be, acting as no Elf was known to act. An Elf of great power and almost unheard of killing strength. An Elf with a light upon him. Such an Elf was very unlikely to be one of the Servants of the Enemy, but such an Elf was likely to bring trouble with him. Thranduil did not want trouble in his kingdom. He had enough of that already. 

In recent years, the spiders had turned their encroachment into a stronghold. Attempts to repel them had had some success, but always, the monsters replenished their numbers and returned. His people had begun to move northward, gathering in closer to the halls, so that they might find refuge there when danger threatened. The caves had first been made fit for Elven habitation during Oropher's reign. Thranduil had expanded and improved them throughout the years, so that they could house more Elves, more comfortably. He wished to be sure his people would have a place to flee to when needed, a place where they could be safe. 

As his hunters finished their work, Thranduil continued to puzzle over the identity of the stranger, but he did not have enough information to guess who he might be. He would have to attempt conversation with him. Tobrien said he had not spoken, but it could be that respite would return a portion of his reason to him. The effort had to be made. He needed to know what new power had come into his wood, and why.

If the strange Elf had not yet woken, he could be moved with relative ease. Thranduil's hunters would work swiftly, bearing their charge through the wide stone doors and down into the cavernous cellars. He did not need to scry again to know that. It was fortunate that they moved so quickly, because one of the party shortly hurried into the throne room, to tell him the stranger seemed to be waking. Thranduil descended at once, flanked by his guards. His curiosity grew with each moment. 

Eager as he was to see the Elf they had found, Thranduil paused outside the storeroom door, listening to the nearby voice of the river, low but lively. The waterway was a road for trade, but it would also present a means of escape, if his people were under siege. Its song was a comfort to him. Contrasting the river's voice, he became aware of another sound, another voice—it rose from the storeroom, something like a sigh and something like a growl. It did not resemble an Elf's voice, but what else could it be? For a final time, Thranduil touched his fingers to the hilt of the white knife. He drew it partway from its sheath, glancing down. He was reassured by what he saw there: nothing of note.

The guards stood by watchfully as Thranduil opened the door. There, on the stone floor, lay the Elf he had been promised. Sprawling and huge, the stranger took up more space than should be possible. His entire long body was caked with filth. Here and there, Thranduil could see through the dirt to the aged, decaying rags beneath. His hair was so matted and caked with soil and leaves that Thranduil could not guess at its actual color. Despite the Elf's soiled condition, the report of Thranduil's hunters was not false. There was a luminousness to him, shining faintly through the cracks in his layer of filth. How long had he been in this state? He seemed as one who had lain in the earth for an age or more. The only part of his skin that was more or less visible was his face. He must have wiped the muck from it at some point, so he could see. His features were clear enough, but completely unfamiliar to Thranduil. 

His eyes were closed, though odd, animal-like noises emerged from his parted lips. He shuddered and twitched, his fingers curling into fists before uncurling again. The sight of him did not make his identity clearer, but deepened the mystery of him. Thranduil remained motionless in the doorway, staring at his unwanted and inconvenient guest in consternation. He was not afraid of him; he was perplexed by his appearance and exasperated at his unexpected and audacious arrival. 

Suddenly, the Elf's head whipped to the side, his eyes snapping open. His gaze focused instantly on Thranduil, with a grave intensity. Those eyes were of such an arresting pallor that Thranduil almost took a step back. A pale, pale gray, almost as white as his knife. The Elf did not speak, but stared at him, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. Thranduil did not fear him, but an unlooked for sympathy softened his exasperation. He had never before seen an expression that attained such a perfect balance of ferocity and sorrow.


	2. Birdsong and Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The mysterious stranger is still mysterious, but not for too much longer!
> 
>  _Language Note:_ While writing in Thranduil's POV, I'm attempting to avoid using Quenya terms as much as I can—unless it's specifically called for. However, it's possible I'll make mistakes, so apologies if I do! (I made a slight change to the first chapter with this in mind, as I re-edited it.)
> 
>  _First Aid Note:_ Thranduil follows proper procedure when dealing with a seizure. I didn't want to include bad first aid advice, so I double checked. [More info here](https://www.cdc.gov/epilepsy/about/first-aid.htm).

Thranduil met and held that pale, potent gaze for an unusually long time—unusual, because he was not given to losing track of himself or his surroundings. He did not realize how long the minutes had stretched until he became aware of his guards moving behind him, shifting in small ways that betrayed their anxiety. Thranduil confronted the truth: he did not know what to do next. He had gathered and organized a collection of questions he might ask this invader, but they had flown from his mind once he was faced with the full reality of this situation. Not only was this an unknown Elf, it was an unprecedented one. 

Few entered the Greenwood without his people knowing, yet here was an Elf who had not only entered, but had commenced slaughtering spiders without being detected until the carcasses had grown too numerous and the damage had been done. Thranduil and his people were careful to hide the bodies of the spiders they killed when they could, dismembering them and burning or burying them, if possible. The spiders saw. They talked. They learned. It was best to keep them ignorant of Elven movements.

This Elf had taken great care in one sense, moving in stealth and silence, defying even the famed tracking of the Silvan Elves for a time. He had simultaneously been careless and reckless, leaving the evidence of his works for all to see, including the other spiders. He had behaved so rashly, charging into the darkest, most infested regions, yet he had survived. What could have possessed him to behave in this way, and _how_ had he done it? 

_I have never seen an Elf like this_ , Tobrien had said, and Thranduil felt the same. Not in all his time as king, or before, when he had lived as a prince under his father's rule, had he encountered an Elf—or anyone—comparable to this person sprawled before him. Even the atmosphere surrounding the stranger was altered. It was not unlike the air that heralded a coming storm, the tense calm before the wind began to shake the branches.

Although this was undeniably an Elf he was faced with, there was a wildness in his manner, and Thranduil could not be sure if the sharp awareness in his eyes was more Elven or animal. No Elf had ever looked at him in that way before. He felt no sense of the recognition of one kindred for another, that familiarity that bound all of the First Children on sight. There was an alien, unknowing quality to him. Could this Elf have forgotten he was an Elf?

 _There was a madness on him._ Tobrien was a perceptive hunter, and he trusted her observations, if not blindly. He measured for himself the signs of the madness she had spoken of. 

Slowly, the Elf rose into a seated position, maintaining eye contact with Thranduil as he did so. He breathed in through his nose sharply, several times. Was he scenting the air? After doing this, he turned away at last, his head swiveling quickly as he scrutinized his location in all directions: the stout stone walls, the open door.

Thranduil's hand returned to the knife-hilt. It was not that he greatly feared the work of the Enemy in this moment. Madness did concern him, though he was not without compassion. He had no desire to harm another Elf, but he would protect himself and his guards. He would not draw his blade except in greatest need, but he _would_ draw it. With an unreal quickness, as if sensing his motion, the Elf faced him again. His gaze alighted on the knife, then shifted from the knife back to Thranduil's face. 

The stranger's eyes narrowed, and for the first time, Thranduil felt that meaningful communication had passed between the two of them. The Elf's awareness might not be entirely Elvish in essence, but there was a keen cleverness in him. Thranduil made a swift decision: he let his hand fall away from the hilt. He was suspicious; time and circumstances had made him so, but he could not bring himself to confront a fellow Elf with the constant threat of a knife. 

As he made his choice, the silence between them was broken at last, by the stranger. He burst into sudden laughter. The sound was bright and beautiful, but bore a sharp edge. That, too, reminded him of his knife. Laughter like a weapon. An Elf like a knife. 

The laughter did not rise and then fall. It only rose. Thranduil stayed where he was, watchful, although his hands stayed at his sides and did not stray toward his weapon again. Thranduil's guards continued to shift uncomfortably, if very slightly, out of concern for their king's well-being. Thranduil could not let this go on indefinitely. "Can you speak?" he asked, sharply. He made his tone harsher to cut through the stranger's laughter, in an attempt to reach him. 

There was no response. The laughter dragged on, growing higher and sharper. Thranduil began to fear it would not stop, that the Elf was unable to control himself. "Who are you? What is your name?" He kept asking questions now, not because these were the questions he had planned to ask, but because he wanted to do whatever he could to interrupt that laughter. It was not so much for his own sake as for the sake of his uneasy people, and that of the stranger himself. 

Thranduil was alarmed by this behavior, but for an Elf to be in such a state, he must have suffered great and lasting harm. He had seen other Elves similarly pushed too far by grief or pain, though never had he seen an extreme of emotion expressed in this way, or by such an individual. The laughter had gone on for so long, it had begun to destabilize, and Thranduil wondered if it was on the verge of fracturing into sobs. 

"What were you doing in my wood?" he demanded.

Finally, thankfully, the laughter stopped, replaced by stark silence. Was it that particular question that had gotten through to the stranger, or the fact that Thranduil had referred to the wood as _his_ , asserting his authority? Or was there no cause, simply an Elf who had lost his reason?

The Elf regarded him wide-eyed for another full minute of silence before he opened his mouth and let out a sound like a croak. It could not be considered speech. He closed his mouth, swallowed, then tried again. " _Killing_ ," he managed to say. His voice still strongly resembled a croak, but the sound had become barely recognizable as a word. 

Not the most reassuring first word, but Thranduil understood his meaning well enough. He had been killing the spiders. That had not been in any doubt.

"So you do speak," Thranduil said.

The Elf looked more surprised to have spoken than Thranduil was to have heard him. He frowned and opened his mouth as if he wished to take back the word he had allowed to slip out. He bit at the air. 

That was not a promising sign, but Thranduil continued. "Why is it you were killing in my wood? What brought you here?" Having found a line of inquiry that had produced a result, he was not about to abandon it.

There was no immediate response. The silent staring recommenced, and Thranduil began to wonder if that single uncomforting word, _killing_ , would be all he would receive for his efforts. 

More abortive choking followed, and then— "Evil," the stranger coughed, finally.

That answer was admittedly not an improvement, but Thranduil was willing to be tentatively charitable in his interpretation. "You were drawn here by the corruption of the spiders?" This Elf was speaking, as Thranduil did, in Edhellen, the language of Thranduil's own people, but his accent was uncommon. Thranduil had a dim memory of hearing it spoken that way before. It must have been long ago. In Doriath, Elves from different parts of the realm had spoken different dialects, yet he had not heard the stranger talk long enough in his rough, damaged voice to guess where he was from.

The stranger turned his head to one side, as if considering the question deeply. He did not so much reply as give a faint hiss of acquiescence, which was concerning. His gaze darted around the storeroom again.

"You will find no spiders in here."

He did not relax, but he stilled. 

Thranduil's voice softened. "Tell me, where did you come from? Before the spiders drew you here. Where were you, then?"

The stillness of the Elf endured. He took on a complete quietness, his eyes wide but his face expressionless. Thranduil waited, but no answer came. He was about to ask another question, when the silence was abruptly shattered by an eruption of movement and sound. The strange Elf's body started to thrash—bizarrely, brokenly, as if he were not a live creature, but a wooden doll, stiff parts pulled in opposite directions. His mouth flew open, and what emerged from his throat was not Elvish speech at all. It was birdsong. 

A nightingale's trill flowed into the scream of a falcon, which was interrupted by the jarring call of a crow. There were the sharp chirps of sparrows and the frantic chatter of bluebirds; a vulture's complaint rising into an eagle's lament. The phrases of a thrush, then the piping of a woodlark. This was not a mere imitation of the sounds, but the sounds themselves—as if a wild, haphazard flock had flown down into the caves and become lost and confused there. 

Before Thranduil could react, a few of his guards had rushed forward and around him, placing themselves bravely between their king and what might prove to be a threat. His hunters were at his back, their weapons ready.

"Do not harm him," said Thranduil. As unsettling as the display was, the Enemy was unlikely to try to deceive with birdsong in an Elven mouth. Experimentally, he let his fingers brush the knife again, but it kept its own counsel and told him nothing.

The knife would be of help only if the Enemy's presence was obvious. Evil could hide its face and go undetected. Of old, the Elves had feared thralls who had lived too long in the Enemy's shadow. They might hide spite and malice behind a fair face—the inner self changed, although the outer had not. Thranduil did not believe that was the case with this stranger. This was not how an Elf bound in secret to the Enemy would appear or act—caked in dirt and spitting birdsong. No, the Enemy was more subtle in his deceptions.

Unfortunately, there had been much wickedness in this world that was not directly the work of the Enemy, even if the Enemy had some hand in it. Those ills, his knife would not speak of. Thranduil could not determine whether something of that kind had appeared in his court, but he could tell for certain that some power was on this stranger—a power higher than that of the Elves.

Like his laughter, the stranger's birdsong was both pleasing and disturbing, a combination Thranduil did not care for, though he found it compelling. The further it progressed, however, the more unsettling and the less pleasant it became. Again, it was as if he could not control the sounds that poured from him. His eyes were wide and glazed, no longer focused on any one point.

The explosion of birdsong could not have gone on for more than a minute, yet Thranduil felt he had been frozen there for an hour or more when the blood first appeared. It began as a redness around the stranger's lips, difficult to discern on his dirty face, but as more of it welled up, the stranger's thrashing sent it flying, dark drops hitting the stone walls. The birdcalls did not stop, but they grew keening and desperate.

The horror of it was enough to startle Thranduil into action. "Summon the healers," he commanded.

"My lord, which healers—" The question was asked out of nervousness and uncertainty. 

The king could not afford to be nervous or uncertain. "Bring whoever you can find. _Now._ " Several of his guards immediately ran to do his bidding. 

The stranger had not appeared injured, and his hunters had not spoken of any injury. The Silvan darts should not have caused him great hurt, certainly not of this kind. Had the spiders managed to injure him internally? That possibility did not seem to explain this behavior, but it would have been difficult to say for sure what state his body was in, it was so caked in filth. The Elf's identity was a deep mystery, but the puzzle of what ailed him was a more pressing one.

Thranduil moved forward, breezing past the guards who had moved to protect him. "Stay back." He was not ungrateful for their loyalty, but as capable as they were, he was better equipped to deal with this situation. The stranger's heedless thrashing could only be worsening whatever was wrong with him. Thranduil pulled off his outer robe and rolled it up neatly, timing his movements to slide it under the stranger's head as he thrashed. 

"You are safe. You are among Elves. Be easy." Thranduil had no great skill at healing, but Oropher had had a measure of that gift, and had taught him what he could. He concentrated, visualizing a green light shining within him. The image was not a thing of power itself, but it aided his focus, allowing him to direct the energy of his _faer_ to gather in his hands. He touched the stranger as lightly as possible—not to restrain him, for that might harm him more—but to ease him onto his side, bringing his head to rest on the rolled robe. "We will not harm you. We will help you." He envisioned the green light spilling from his fingers and into the stranger's pained body. He hoped it would bring him a little comfort. He wished, as he had wished many times before, that he could do more to heal. 

"That's better," he said.

The birdsong diminished into a light trilling. It was absurd to hear an Elf speak to him like a warbler, but it was an improvement. Thranduil glanced down at his hand. On the back of it were round, red drops of blood.

The stranger met his gaze again, as blood and song leaked from his lips. At this proximity, Thranduil could see that his pale eyes held a silvery glow, dimmed but definite. Thranduil frowned, wary of the light, though it was striking and not unappealing—not a fell light, only peculiar.

He had scant time to contemplate that brightness before the healers arrived, escorted by guards. Relieved, he drew back, more than willing to let them do their work, with skills which far surpassed his own. He could do no more here, not now. Their guest was injured and could not speak. Interviewing him would do no good. Thranduil was not yet convinced that it was safe to keep him here, but his guards were many, and the storeroom was secure. 

As he retreated, he could sense the stranger's gaze on him, following him. It was that expectant feeling—of a coming storm. The same as when he turned his back on a coming bank of dark cloud, but he could nonetheless sense its presence and its approach.

He went to his quarters, pausing only to wash the blood from his hands in the river. As he entered his rooms, he could yet feel the weight of that bright gaze, though it had diminished with distance. He assumed there would be no need for him in the storeroom for some time. The night was profound, and he was weary. So weary, yet he felt no desire for sleep. He seated himself and fell into deep contemplation—but not reverie.

_This Elf came to my wood unknowing, drawn by the gathering darkness to combat the shadows. He has unheard of strength and is filled with light. He speaks the language of birds. There is a madness on him and a deep hurt within._

Thranduil enjoyed none of these observations. He did approve of battle against the shadow, but not when it was so reckless it endangered his realm and his people. He told himself it was possible that this was an Elf whose name he would not know, if he heard it. In his heart, he did not believe that was true. An Elf of the Elder Days, and what was more—one of the Gódhellim, who had caused his people so much strife. The signs were all there. He would have been foolish to deny them.

It was not that he objected to the Gódhellim as a whole, or as a rule, but there had long been distrust between his people and the Exiles from Valinor. Times were much changed, but the ghosts of suspicion lingered. The number of Elves in Middle-earth had dwindled, and he was familiar with the living Gódhil who remained. He did not know them all as individuals, but most he could place and guess at the origins of, by their manner and their way of speaking and dress. That was not the case with this Gódhel. His eyes were both so brilliant and cold. Looking into them was like entering the heart of winter. 

Thranduil rose from his chair. He had grown restless, in spite of his weariness. His quarters felt too confining, so he wandered into the corridors of his palace. They were also not wide enough to contain him in his current state of mind, so he emerged from the caves. The guards he passed greeted him, but they did not engage him in further conversation. It may have been that they understood his current unease, or that they were used to their king's ways. Most likely both things were true.

None of his people would have thought it unusual to seek the comfort of the trees, at any time. As Thranduil passed from the narrow stone passages out into the wideness and wildness of the wood, he felt his heart begin to open. He heard the murmur of the trees all around him. He sensed their presence and awareness, as they doubtlessly sensed his. Great Evil had come to his Greenwood, but it was still green and free. It was still his land, and he would fight for it. He would not retreat to any other. 

Thranduil rested his hand on the bark of one of the great trees growing near his Halls. He knew each one of them so well. He closed his eyes and fell into communion with this great, old friend, sharing his troubles. He could not fully explain the quickness, ruthlessness, and danger of the stranger to this tree. There were aspects of Elven life that were too alien for the trees to understand, yet he spoke to his friend of his unease and doubt, and received reassurance in return. 

The night-birds were singing. Leaving his hand upon the tree, he looked up and listened. The birdsong tonight was plentiful, more like a substantial chorus than a series of scattered calls. The night-birds were not as prone to this proliferation of singing as the birds of the morning with their dawn concert. Had they heard the stranger's frantic song? It had been so piercing and loud, it may have escaped the stone walls, by way of the river. Were the birds singing for him?

That, too, provided some reassurance. He could hear no shadow in this song. He went forth to seek the singers and listen to their music. He could not speak the language of the birds, but he could understand some of their meaning. So near to his Halls, there was little danger. He did not stray so far that he could not be called back, if there was need. This region of the forest was where his people lived, most of them preferring life among the trees to a life below the earth within the caves. He could understand that preference, for he shared it. He lived where he did as a matter of practicality and tactics. He doubted Oropher would have agreed to such a change of residence, and he smiled to think of how fiercely his father had loved the forest, a love they had shared. 

Thranduil kept company with his wood and its trees and birds, until dawn warmed and gilded the leaves. With the coming of morning, he had reached no decisions on the matter of the stranger, but he was much refreshed, and less weary, although he had not slept. He remembered a promise that he had made. He was eager to keep it.

He met Maeven at the door to Legolas' chambers. Maeven and the other members of Legolas' coterie had likely not slept, any more than he had. Although the stranger must have remained obediently in his storeroom, and had not proved himself to be a direct danger to his people, Thranduil was grateful for the attendants' service and their protection. Maeven was armed, and his expression was tense. He had lost his own child in the wars, and that grief had never gone from him. It was likely the reason he had volunteered for this duty. Legolas could not have asked for a more ardent protector. 

Legolas was still asleep, so Thranduil sat quietly at his bedside, gazing down at his small son. As always, it did him good to see him safe and well. Upon becoming a father, he had fully understood how Oropher must have felt, long ago.

Legolas had been an infant when the parents of his birth were slain by the spiders. The attack had been a shock to all, as the spiders had struck where their presence had been previously unknown. Legolas' parents had fought so bravely to defend their child. Aid had, unfortunately, come moments too late. The child had been saved, but not his parents. Legolas' mother had been one of Oropher's household, who had come from Doriath in the first days, and his father had been a Silvan Elf, born to these woods. 

Shown this shining child in the wake of great tragedy, Thranduil had been reminded of his own father as he took Legolas in his arms. A child who had lost his family—how could he fail to feel for him strongly? He had made one of his quick, final decisions. He had been wracked with grief and love, and it had felt inevitable. He had declared that the child would be, if not of his blood, then the child of his heart. 

Parents of the blood would never be forgotten or set aside, but according to the customs of his people, a parent of the heart was no less essential. Legolas' blood relatives were as much a part of his life as they would have been otherwise, but the Silvan Elves had been thrilled to accept the child as Thranduil's heir and their prince. 

When Legolas' eyes finally opened, he was quick to smile. "Ada! Is it morning already?"

"It is. I told you it wouldn't be long." Thranduil touched his fingertips to Legolas' head. "Little Leaf." 

Legolas' hand grasped his. Thranduil held it, smiling. 

Legolas was the source of his greatest joy, but also his greatest worry. He imagined that the evil that had invaded his realm might continue to grow with time, that his people would be more and more beleaguered, and that violence could reach his stronghold here in the north. The thought of his son fleeing in fear—hurt and alone—struck him, hitting too close to memories of his own childhood. Legolas' young life already held too much sorrow. Legolas may not have remembered his birth parents clearly, but he was growing up in the shadow of their deaths. Thranduil would do whatever he could to save him from further grief.

Was this stranger a threat to their tenuous peace? It was possible, but the obligation to assist his fellow Elves persisted. Elves had been so divided throughout the centuries, and Thranduil had developed a great wariness, but wariness could not be allowed to poison him. Division was what the Enemy had always wanted, and had so many times achieved. Unless a clear danger showed itself, he would let the stranger stay, until he was well enough to leave on his own. 

Thranduil would remain on his guard, but he wanted to believe he had not brought danger into his own Halls. Long ago, another king had found his halls invaded, his people scattered, his life cruelly blotted out. Thranduil feared that fate, but he could not be ruled by fear—for that, too, was the wish of the Enemy.


	3. Echoing Caves, Silent Woods

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's the Sad Flashback Chapter™! For reasons that will soon become clear, I wanted to account for what happened to Thranduil in First Age Doriath. (Also, I really wanted to write about kid Thranduil.)
> 
> According to my plan, the Mystery Elf's identity will be revealed in the next chapter, but I couldn't resist this diversion.

This was the darkest of all forests, and his journey to reach it was the darkest, most harrowing race of his life. Thranduil, who rode seated in front of Oropher, clung to Oropher's robes as their horse sped through the night. A few of the refugees from Menegroth were mounted, but most were forced to run. The riders slowed for the runners when they had to—as the runners did for the riders, where the growth was too dense for the horses to pass easily. 

Thranduil sobbed into Oropher's robe, until he had no tears left and his eyes were sore. He did not know where they were going or how long they had been traveling. His chest was sore; his heart ached with each beat. The world had been split into pieces, and he was terrified. The single bond that kept him attached to this life and to himself was Oropher's hand, which now and again settled on his head, cupping it close. The warmth of Oropher's fingers and the softness of Oropher's robe of green and silver were the only sources of solace in the cold world.

When they finally stopped running, Thranduil was too stiff and cold and dazed to dismount alone, so he let Oropher take him up in his arms and carry him. He heard Oropher's voice, calling out to those who fled alongside them. Thranduil heard other voices, but he could not make out a single word anyone said. Did it matter? Did words have meaning anymore? He lay his head against Oropher's chest, and the world slowly faded away. He did not so much fall asleep as lose consciousness. 

When Thranduil awoke, he was lying on the ground, his knees curled up to his chest. The first thing he became aware of was Oropher's cloak, wrapped around him. He studied the detailed embroidery: threads of silver on a field of dark green. There, close to his head, was a stitched nightingale perched among silver-edged leaves. He reached his hand out and traced the lines of it slowly, following the bright threads from beak to tail, then stroking the velvet of the green. It was a long time before he thought to look up. When he did, his first sight was of Oropher, gazing down on him. 

Oropher was smiling, but Thranduil had never seen him look so weary or so sad. Oropher reached down and touched his fingers lightly to Thranduil's head: a familiar gesture. Thranduil blinked, and curled up more tightly, drawing himself into the smallest shape possible. 

Looking past his uncle, Thranduil saw a barrier of leaves and branches, as tightly coiled as his body was. He had never seen such a dense undergrowth. Rising above it were great trees, and the shadows between them were profound. He could not see far into that forest, as if the branches were hung with thick, dark curtains to block his sight. 

Oropher must have followed his gaze, for he said, "This is Nan Elmoth. We can stay here for a little while. Few know the way through these woods, and most avoid them. We'll be safe here. "

Thranduil could not believe that it could be safe. He refused. Their home had not been safe. He closed his eyes, for he no longer wanted to look at the wood or the world. At some point after that, he must have slept, but he could not tell when the darkness gave way to unconsciousness. 

In his sleep, he was in Menegroth again. Stone walls rose to his right and his left, carved with delicate leaves and flowers. Rough shouts echoed behind him, and the growing scent of fire overwhelmed all others. Thranduil was not running; he was being carried down the long, stone corridor. Not by Oropher, no—it was his father. _Ada!_ Thranduil wrapped his arms around him, but as he clung to him, Ada started to diminish, shrinking between his arms. Thranduil tightened his grasp, but his father continued to dwindle, until he was barely an Elf. Thranduil cried out, and made a final grab at him, but Father had all but disappeared. With nothing and no one to hold him up, Thranduil started to fall—

He thrashed his legs and arms—and the movement woke him. He was not in the caves, but the shadowy forest. Oropher had remained by his side, but Oropher was not smiling now. Oropher took him up in his arms and held him. Thranduil gripped him tightly in return, half-afraid he would also vanish, as Ada had.

 _Ada_ — Thranduil tried to call out for him, but when he opened his mouth, no sound came from it. For a moment, caught between dream and waking, he thought his father was with them. He turned his head to look for him, but he saw only the trees of Nan Elmoth. That was when the memory came rushing back.

His family's quarters had been in central Menegroth, in the royal district, relatively close to the former quarters of the king. When the fighting had begun, Thranduil had heard frightening noises, but he had not known what to do about them. He had hidden himself behind a hanging. He remained there until his father burst into the room. Then, Thranduil rushed out to greet him and wrap his arms around his legs.

Thranduil's father did not speak, simply grabbed hold of Thranduil. With his child in his arms, he started to run. He ran so far and so fast, darting around narrow turns and racing down broad corridors. The caves which had been a home were now a trap. Heedless of the danger, he did not stop running, not even when his body was struck by Dwarves' weapons and his blood was shed, not until he reached the home of Oropher.

Oropher's residence was on the very edge of Menegroth. His halls opened onto the woods, for Oropher had never preferred life among the caves. The placement of the city had long been a source of disagreement between him and the other nobles of Doriath—Oropher was opinionated, though he was steadfast rather than aggressive, like a tree with deep roots. Others considered him antiquated in his beliefs, but he was fond of saying that Elves belonged out under the stars, among the trees—living as they had in the very first of days, in Cuiviénen.

Oropher had spoken often of those first days, and Thranduil had secretly agreed with him that it would be best to live that way. He had always loved spending time with Oropher. You could walk from his residence directly into the deep forest, and his rooms were full of leaves and natural light. There, you could see the stars at night. That must have been why his father ran directly to Oropher. It was so easy to leave the caves from his residence, and it was set apart from the rest of Menegroth as a measure of security. It was likely to be one of the last areas of the city to be invaded.

Father was so badly hurt by the time he had reached Oropher. As he thrust Thranduil into his brother's arms, he fell to the floor. On his knees, he pressed his hands to the cold stone, like a suppliant before his brother. "Fêr, please, take him, save him." The desperation in his voice cracked out like a whip.

"Brother— I will, of course, but you will come with us, too," said Oropher.

"I cannot go." 

Thranduil was dimly aware of others rushing through the room, frantically gathering preparing to leave. He did not turn to see who they were. His attention was taken up by his father, bleeding on the floor. His father was looking at him, too. "I'm so sorry, Thranduil," he said. His voice was weak, and there was blood on his lips. Ada had not raised his sword to fight. He had only run. He was a tender and keeper of trees, helping them to grow, healing their hurts. He had never taken up arms in earnest. Only a monster could have done this to him. Ada, who was so kind. 

"Ada, I don't want to leave you," Thranduil sobbed.

The people of Doriath had already been grieving the loss of their King and their Queen, and this new violence was a cruelty that no one could bear. Why had it happened? How could the Dwarves have committed such crimes, against Elves who had done them no harm? They were the monsters.

"Your mother…," Ada said, his voice fainter.

"I will find her," said Oropher, choking back sobs. In spite of what he had been told to do, Oropher had set Thranduil down gently. He was trying to bind his brother's wounds, telling him to lie still. There were others, too, moving in to help. "Please, save your breath. Don't talk."

Ada ignored Oropher's request, continuing to use his breath. "No. You can't find her. I saw. She— She has gone home." He reached out to Thranduil with one hand. "Oropher will look after you now. He will be for you what I cannot." He forced a smile, still watching Thranduil, as if he never wanted to look away. "We love you. So much." 

"No—no—!" Tears ran down Oropher's face and fell onto his brother's body. "I will heal you. We will all leave this place together. I need more time."

There was no more time. 

Thranduil could not think of that moment any longer. Instead, he focused on the forest surrounding them. Nan Elmoth—this was where King Thingol had first encountered the Maia Melian, wasn't it? The thought made him uneasy, putting him in mind of the king's death. That loss, the first loss, was still so recent, making this latest tragedy more of a horror. Not only had they been forced from their home, but they were scattered, with no king to guide them. 

Thranduil shuddered. He heard again in his mind Melian's piercing cry. A scream of pure grief, it had cut through all of Doriath, bringing pain and sorrow to anyone who heard it. Thranduil had fallen to his knees when the cry had gone up. He had not yet known what it meant, but he had known it was a cry of anguish, suffering beyond anything he had experienced before.

Melian had left them, and Thranduil understood how she had felt. Whenever he closed his eyes, or his mind drifted into a waking dream, he saw his father and mother's faces again. He wished he could let out a great cry and fly away, too, but he could not make a single sound.

He felt a little better when Oropher held him. He was less comforted by their location, but he had heard it was a place of ancient, deep magic. When he looked up, and could not see any light through the leaves, neither sunlight nor starlight, so he could not tell if it was night or day. Even though this was a clearing, the trees were so tall, their broad branches reached out to form a ceiling above it. The canopy was so thick, a barricade to keep the forest's secrets hidden. When Thranduil could learn nothing from it, he glanced around the clearing and saw that he and Oropher were not alone.

There were many Elves with them here. Several of them he recognized from Oropher's household and knew the names of. It cheered him a little to see that he was not the only younger Elf present. There were a number of other Elves his own age, and he knew most of them. Some of his friends were here! Then they were safe. His heart ached a little less. Oropher and his people must have gathered them and rescued them. Thranduil glanced back at his uncle, who gave him the same tired, but hopeful, smile he had offered before. 

This was a time to speak. He should say something, even if it was only _thank you_ , but he could not. It was as if sorrow had sealed his throat and frozen his tongue. Oropher seemed to be waiting to hear him talk, but when he did not, Oropher did not demand it of him. He hugged him and said, "We will set up camp here. Rest as long as you like. I won't be far from you. Come to me, if you need me."

The older Elves were already raising tents at the far end of the clearing. Others were gathering wood and sorting through supplies, or tending to the horses. A few Elves had ventured away from the camp in different directions, likely to scout or forage. Someone had started a fire, and Thranduil shuddered, remembering the smell of fire in the caves, and wondering how many of their treasures, great and small, must have been burned and broken in Menegroth. 

As Oropher went to help the others, Thranduil rose slowly and joined the other children. They were gathering for comfort, and because they had nowhere else to go. One of the older Elves was watching over them, talking to them in what was clearly an attempt to raise their spirits. The mood among the other children was tense, and they spoke little. That suited Thranduil, as he had no words and did not have a great will to listen to anyone else speak. Some of the younger children started to play very quietly, while others started to gather grass to dry for weaving, or hunt for herbs to season food.

One of his friends was among the grass gatherers, so Thranduil planted himself beside her and helped, selecting the finest and broadest blades. In spite of the fact that sunlight was blocked by the leaves of Nan Elmoth, the grass blades were thick and strong. They too were dark in color. Peering at them intently, you could just make out the glitter, like starlight, that ran through their veins. Thranduil was glad to have a task like this, one which required only the simplest thought. His friend must have thought the same, because they worked industriously together without speaking, gathering heaps of grass for later weaving. 

Someone nearby—Thranduil was almost positive it was Oropher—raised his voice in song. He sang an old song of their people, a song of the trees and the stars, of the wind in the branches and the work of the hands of Elves. One by one, the voices of other Elves rose to join the first singer, until almost all of them were singing, and the song became the creation of many, far larger than any one voice or any one Elf. Thranduil remembered the words, and they tugged at his heart. He wanted to join in, but his voice remained. He pulled at one of the blades of grass, and before he realized what he was doing, he had ripped in two. He tore it again, into smaller pieces. And again and again, until the grass was almost nothing, and his fingers gleamed faintly from the moisture within the plant.

They had become citizens of Nan Elmoth, creating a small settlement in the dark wood. It was a world away from Menegroth. Within the clearing, the time passed like a dream. The twilit wood _was_ a dream in some ways, cut off from the rest of the world in a way that few other places rivaled. It was not set apart because of the work of any of the Children of Ilúvatar, but by its own nature and power. 

They could not stay here forever, but he did not want to go back. 

The grass Thranduil had helped to gather dried slowly. After a few days, it was ready for weaving, and a group of the children sat making baskets and plates and toys and jewelry out of it. Thranduil may have helped pick the grass, but he balked at the thought of making something. It felt as meaningless as speaking. Instead, he walked along the edge of the clearing alone, glancing at the deeper forest as he went.

Everyone had heard stories of Nan Elmoth. Some were wonderful—like the tale of how King Thingol had encountered Queen Melian—but others were more grim and even frightening. Thranduil had heard many of these, especially from the older children. 

The most upsetting one involved the great Smith of the Wood, about whom there were many stories told. He had lived in Nan Elmoth for many years. He had a wife and a child, and he had made so many magical and precious things. One day, he disappeared. No one knew where he had gone, or why. Once Thingol realized he was missing, he sent Elves into Nan Elmoth to look for him, but they didn't find anything or anyone, neither the Smith nor his family. None of them ever returned, and they were not heard of again in Thingol's realm. Nan Elmoth had been uninhabited by Elves for the past hundred years—until now. Thranduil hated the idea that an entire family could vanish, with no explanation.

His own family had vanished, except for Oropher. 

Where had the Smith and his family had gone. Were they still living? He had heard that King Thingol had sent Elves to look for them, but no definite trace had been found, only rumors. 

_It's because he married a Gódhel_ , the older child who had told him the story had said. _No good can come of that. Might as well marry a Dwarf!_

Thranduil recoiled from any thought of Dwarves, so he considered the Gódhellim instead. They were Elves, but so unlike his own people. Some of the most horrifying stories he had ever heard were about them, though his mind shied from their most unthinkable acts. There were stories about the Smith's Gódhil wife as well. She was said to be beautiful beyond believing, a wild huntress dressed all in white, with a voice like a bird's. 

Maybe the Smith and his family weren't really gone. Maybe they were hiding within the wood. Thranduil tried to imagine their faces as he walked along the edge of the clearing: the Smith, the Huntress, and their son. He was aware of the other children playing at the opposite end of the clearing. Some of the adult Elves were preparing the next meal, while some were singing and dancing. He was still with them, but far away from them. He was not entirely alone, but he wanted to be. 

He could not resist attempting to gaze deeper into the thick shadows. What if the missing Elves were still here, only hiding? What if the Pale Lady yet walked among the twilit trees in secret? Thranduil narrowed his eyes, attempting to pierce the forest's depths, but he found only darkness and more trees, although—was that a flicker of movement, there? Leaning forward and turning his head to just the right angle, Thranduil saw a faint light, gleaming behind a wall of leaves. Intrigued, he took a few steps toward it, leaving the clearing and entering the forest proper. 

The clearing had a clear boundary. Grass gave way to thick undergrowth almost immediately. Thranduil would not go too far. He would stay within sight of their encampment. He wasn't likely to become lost. That happened only rarely, and to the most foolish of Elves. It was a joke to say it, teasingly: _Be careful, you'll get lost in the woods!_ Thranduil had never been lost before, but this wood was unique, dark with story and mystery. Oropher had told everyone to be careful, and he had not meant it as a joke, but that was why Thranduil was only going to walk a short way. 

Thranduil stepped delicately through the dense tangle on the forest floor. It was difficult, but he managed to squeeze through. Like all plants here beneath the impenetrable canopy, those surrounding him could live without light. Some of the vines and bushes were dark in color, almost black, but others had light running through their veins, a soft silver shimmer. 

He walked toward the glow he had seen—expecting it to be another luminous plant, a brighter kind, which did not grow within sight of the clearing. It was not too far. He pushed through a veil of broad leaves and drew up short. 

_What—?_ What was that? It was no plant, but pure light, rosy gold in color, floating in a softly circular shape. He did not know whether to be horrified or amazed. The bright orb spun slowly as it bobbed, gently rising and falling, sending out fading tendrils in its wake as it moved. A ghost? No, that could not be. Ghosts could not stay in the wood, Could they? Some spirit being, then?

The forest light moved away from him without any sense of urgency, drifting through the dark and illuminating Nan Elmoth's leaf cloak as it went. As Thranduil stared, he saw more lights floating behind it, in the distance. Soft and pulsating, floating through the air like leaves in a sleepy stream.

None of the adults had said anything about this. Did it have something to do with the missing family? Thranduil turned around, intending to run directly back to camp and tell Oropher about the lights, but he halted immediately, eyes widening. He had turned back in the direction he had come from, but before him was only the shadowy wood. No sign of any clearing. Wildly, he looked in every direction, hoping that he hadn't turned to face the right way, or that a trick of the trees had obscured the clearing and the other Elves from view, but no—no matter which direction he gazed in, or which leaves and trees he looked behind, he could not find any signs of Elves or their tents.

He was sure he had not traveled far enough through the wood to be so completely out of sight. Something was very wrong. Was it the magic of the lights? Was this some enchantment of the forest? Glancing behind him, he saw that the lights had not disappeared, still drifting lazily through the air, though they had grown more distant while he was not watching them. Should he follow them? Or should he go back in the direction he was sure he had come from to look for the vanished clearing?

Common sense told Thranduil to head toward where the clearing _should_ have been, so he did. He stepped carefully, his senses alert to every aspect of his surroundings, concentrating intensely to catch any signs of those he had left behind. He had been thinking of missing Elves, and now he was the one who was missing.

When he reached the spot where his mind and memory told him the clearing should have been, Thranduil found himself within a thicket of silver-leaved trees. It was as if the clearing had winked out of existence—or he had been stolen away by a mysterious spell. He pushed through the leaves with his hands. Their bright edges were sharp and bit at his fingers. He should have been more careful. In spite of Oropher's warning, he had not thought walking such a short distance could be a serious danger. He should have listened.

He had walked several more steps in the same direction, when he made out another light. Instead of moving toward it, he stopped and studied it. A glowing orb floated into view, tumbling from tree to tree. This spirit light was not alone. Behind it were more of the drifting orbs. Above, he noticed much smaller, paler pinpoints, like tiny stars affixed in the night sky of the forest canopy. Were these orbs the same ones he had seen before? But he had turned his back on those. Had they circled around him, or were these entirely new lights? 

New or old, and in spite of his fear, he could not deny that they were beautiful. His wonder at the sight of them grew as they shone and spun above him. He felt an unfamiliar joy as he took in the sight of them, wild and unknown, yet at the same time, his alarm was growing. There was deep fear in this forest, but there were ancient marvels as well, all twisted together like the dense undergrowth. 

Thrandiul stood motionless for a long time, watching the lights, waiting to see if anything else happened, which would give him an idea of what to do next. The lights remained out of reach, and he could not remain where he was forever.

With a start, he realized the leaves had grown nearer. When had that happened? How had he not noticed sooner? It was as if the forest was closing in on him. He had to leave now. He started to push his way through the growth again. His progress was slower and more difficult. His breathing and heartbeat were quickening. He was almost as frightened as he had been back in Menegroth's halls—there, where the stone was carved into great trees in flower. The greatest difference between his last moments in Menegroth and his panic in this wood was that there, he had heard shouts and screams, the clatter of weapons and of falling objects. Here, a complete silence had wrapped itself around him. He did not hear anything, not even a rustle of wind in the leaves or a distant trill of birdsong. Not even his own breath or heartbeat.

Which was worse, awful sounds or an awful silence? Thranduil could not decide, but he feared that the silence which had gathered in his throat and taken all the words from him had managed to spread outward from his body and overwhelm all the sounds in the world. Was it his fault, for not wanting to speak or listen?

Panting, he was almost sobbing, but he could not cry or make a single noise. Vines caught at his limbs, and branches jabbed at his hands and neck and every part of his exposed skin. The leaves formed a thick blanket, descending to smother him. He longed for Oropher's green and silver cloak to wrap himself in, to protect himself, but he had left it back in the clearing, along with its owner. The clearing was gone, and so was Oropher.

Thranduil expected to be swallowed whole by the forest, but he would not let himself be consumed without a struggle. He struck back with his fists and feet, drawing on all his strength to fight the forest itself. If he had to die, alone and soundless, he would not die easily. He closed his eyes tight to protect them from the leaf-edges. He had to press on. He tore his way through the growth, ripping leaves and breaking branches—things he would ordinarily never do, if his instinct to survive was not driving him to do it.

He kept fighting until he stumbled forward, shocked to find there was suddenly nothing holding him up or hemming him in. The force of his fury kept him moving, and he staggered several more steps out of surprise, before remembering to open his eyes.

Thranduil blinked at finding himself in a clearing. Had he made it back? No, this was not the same clearing he had left behind, where his people had pitched their careful, graceful tents. Here, the grass was much shorter, and darker in color, almost indigo. At the far end of this clearing, there were no tents—there was a house. 

The house was obviously built from the wood of this forest: a dark, purplish gray, with hints of shimmer like starlight. The light had lingered long after the trees had been felled, as if a little life remained within the timber. It was not a large house, though it was difficult for Thranduil to tell exactly how long it was, as the far end of it faded into the wood so completely. The wooden columns held up a gabled roof, which curved toward the sky at each corner. 

Thranduil stared at the structure as he caught his breath. He smoothed down his clothes, noticing that the edge of one sleeve and the hem of his shirt were torn. As long as he was free, it didn't matter what happened to his clothes, but he ached where he had been struck by branches and jabbed by leaves. 

He did not need to wonder what this place was, because he had a good guess. Who else had lived in Nan Elmoth in a secret clearing? This had to be the Smith's house. Having visited this place in so many tales, he was amazed to see it in person. Amazed, but not as pleased as he might have been before his ordeal. He had reached the house of song and story, but what good did that do him, if he couldn't get back to where he was supposed to be?

Thranduil walked in a circle, searching for anything remotely familiar or helpful. If he were to see the floating lights again, that would be something, but they were gone. His only company here was the dark grass and the faintly gleaming house. The house's doors and windows were dark. It did not look as if anyone had lived there in a long, long time. 

Should he go in? Curiosity pulled at him, but wariness made him hesitate. It probably was a bad idea to enter that building. Elves so rarely became lost anywhere, but everyone knew that if by some chance you did, you should not keep wandering into stranger places. Yet even as he told himself this, Thranduil took a step toward the house. He frowned. He hadn't wanted to do that. 

Thranduil took another step. The house loomed above him—the empty darkness of the windows watching him like eyes. He had known for some time that there was magic at work, but what he didn't know was when or where it would end. He tried to resist it, to make himself stay still, but—in spite of his best efforts, he took another step. What was it that kept drawing him in? Was it the work of the Enemy, or something altogether different? He took another step.

Thranduil sank to his knees, hoping that would end his relentless walk, but he took the next step on his knees. Then another. The house seemed to grow taller, with each step he took. He reached down to grasp the grass. He held on to it, trying to keep himself steady, but the grass broke in his hands. What else could he do to stop himself? He had nothing to protect himself with. He had no hope. He was alone in the world. All he could do was more forward, crawling now, as the house watched him approach.

In that moment, as he was about to despair, the silence was broken by song. The singing did not come from the direction of the house, but from the woods behind him. Thranduil could not turn in that direction. He could only stare at the house, but as he listened, the music came closer. It was the song of a single voice, raised high. Such a strong, deep voice, cutting through the dark wood to reach him. 

Thranduil knew that voice. He called out "Oropher!" The first word he had said since he had seen his father die. "It's me, I'm here!"

 _Oh—_ was it forever, or did only a few moments pass before Oropher swept him up in his arms and held him tight? "Thranduil, Thranduil. Little Spring." Thranduil saw the nightingale of silver thread again, perched at Oropher's shoulder. Its beak was open, as if in song.

"You're safe now," Oropher said.

Thranduil began to weep again. He had found more tears somewhere, and it was as if he had to be rid of them entirely, to empty his body of them forever. How many tears did you have to cry before they were all gone and would never return? "I'm not—nothing's safe—"

Oropher lifted an edge of his green robe to carefully wipe Thranduil's tears away. "The world is a dangerous place, but you will be as safe as I can make you. This I swear to you. Remember, Thranduil, no one you have loved is truly lost."

Thranduil started to cry again, but no matter how many tears he shed, Oropher was there to dry them. "You will stay with me," he said. "I will never leave you. I will always love you." Oropher's hands stroked his hair, and he placed a kiss on the crown of Thranduil's head. "I'll bring you back."

Thranduil remembered how Oropher's robe had swept around him, then, like a magical veil of protection, comfort, and warmth. He was wrapped in it and spirited away from the danger of the wild wood, toward hope and the future.

Oropher's song had broken the chilling magic of that place, which had lingered so long after the Smith's disappearance. For there was a more powerful magic at work, and it was Oropher's. Thranduil learned in the midst of such great sorrow that he had been visited by good fortune, in company with tragedy. He had been fated to have—not one fine father, but two.


	4. The Stranger Guest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, I didn't _exactly_ reveal the stranger's identity yet, as I didn't _quite_ get to it, but there are now more hints. Official confirmation is soon to come! Haha.

Thranduil had not seen Oropher—who had been a father to him for thousands of years—for centuries. Each day, he felt the grief of his loss anew, as he felt the grief of his birth parents' departure. The wounds of grief had not healed over; they had only grown more familiar, so he had learned the art of living with them. He and his family would be united someday, it was said, but that day was likely far, far in the future.

Oropher's people had remained in Nan Elmoth for months following the first fall of Doriath. After Thranduil's accident, they had walked with greater care, but they had not left at once. Thranduil had stumbled into the remnants of the Smith's magic, but Oropher had been able to break the spell that trapped him. The Smith was gone, and his magic was masterless, which made it easier for another to master. Still, the magic had not vanished so much as grown wild and unbound, meaning it remained a concern. 

There were other, more ancient, powers at work in Nan Elmoth, as well. Oropher judged them too unknown and unknowable to trust long term, but he wished to hide his people and keep them safe more than he had been wary of the wood. With Melian's great border fence in tatters, Oropher immediately headed for another place he knew as protected, in some sense. He had made a wise choice. Nan Elmoth had its perils, but it had kept them from harm.

The battle in the caves had broken out without warning. In their panicked bid to escape, Oropher's people had fled so quickly, they had not known precisely what happened, or how great the enemy was. Was it the Dwarves alone, or were they aided by the might of Morgoth? Was it a single strike, or the first of many? It took time before they found more refugees and were able to piece together the truth, or a part of it.

No, Oropher had never intended that they should live there long-term. In addition to his concerns about the wood's dark magic, he longed for the stars, which could be glimpsed only here and there from the forest floor, through the rare breaks in the great, dark canopy. _Elves need trees and starlight,_ as he was fond of saying. That was why he had sworn to never again reside in Menegroth. His ingrained aversion to living in a city of caves had been proven justified. Why would he agree to be hemmed in by stone again? In that, too, he had made the right choice. If he had returned to the city when Dior restored it, all of them likely would have perished.

Oropher had returned to Menegroth but once more, to search for survivors in the caves and the surrounding forest. Thranduil had been too young to go, although he had longed to. Even then, he had yet hoped that his father or mother might be found alive. They had not been found, but Oropher had returned with more Elves who wished to accompany him, frightened but grateful.

Upon leaving Nan Elmoth, they had gone south and east, giving Thargelion a wide berth, and they had arrived ultimately at Ossiriand, where they remained for a time. Oropher's domain had not quite been a kingdom, but it had been a home. His love of the stars and the trees was so fierce, it was no wonder that the people of Eryn Galen had come to love him so quickly and admire him so greatly—and why Oropher had loved and admired them, too.

Thranduil smiled to think of Oropher's first meeting with the Silvan people; a much happier memory than his sorrow following the Battle of the Caves. The sunlight falling on Oropher's hair had turned it into gold, and the leaves framing him resembled a crown of green. Oropher had never sought kingship for himself, but he had not been able to deny the entreaty of the Elves of the Greenwood. They had suffered their own losses, and they had need and want of guidance. They had known Oropher for what he was: a leader with deep understanding, and roots of almost ferocious stubbornness. 

Oropher should still be king today, but instead of brooding on that thought, Thranduil busied himself with his own duties. He had advice to dispense, and counsel to consider. There were losses to review and orders to give. His people were not yet engaged open war, but they were so plagued by enemies of late, he felt besieged. 

That was why he had removed himself to his current residence, more able to withstand a siege than any other within his lands. Oropher might not have approved of the halls under stone where he had taken refuge, but the cave walls that enclosed him were unlike those of Menegroth. They were of Elven make. Thranduil had expanded his palace with an attack in mind. He had created tricks and traps and many secret passages of escape, which were known to his people but would be difficult for enemies to find. What had happened at Menegroth could not be allowed to happen again. There were no Maiar here to create a mystical border of protection, and if there had been, Thranduil had learned better than to rely on the protection of any magic.

Thranduil did not once forget the stranger who was held within his halls, but he let his awareness of him drift to the back of his mind while he was absorbed in his duties. He could not afford to let any distraction impact his decision-making. He had confidence that the stranger was being well-cared for. The healers would appeal to him if any difficulties faced them they could not overcome alone. He did not have to actively consider the mystery again until one of his healers entered the throne room.

Spennel was one of the realm's most gifted healers. She was very small in stature for an adult Elf, but she had a deeply calm air about her that made her presence far larger than her small size. Being near her was like being in the company of both a refreshing river and a small stone. When she entered his throne room, the other Elves present drew back and allowed her approach. 

Only Galion stayed at Thranduil's side. He was accustomed to remain seated there often, in case Thranduil had need of anything. Thranduil rarely sent him on errands, but if Galion wished to sit beside him, he didn't have the heart to send him away. He suspected Galion wished to have privileged knowledge of any happenings in the kingdom. Galion leaned in to watch Spennel approach with interest.

"My lord," the healer said softly once she reached the foot of his throne, inclining her head and waiting to be given leave.

"You may speak freely, Spennel. Please."

Spennel had been among the healers gathered last night. No doubt she had soon taken her rightful role as chief among them. Her eyes were dark as the night, and the lights of the halls put stars in them. "You must know what I have come to speak of. We stayed with Athal through the night, and we gave him healing, as you asked."

Athal? The word was a polite term for guest or stranger, and it was apt enough. Although it initially surprised him to hear it used in the sense of a name for the newcomer, there was an old Silvan belief that it was unlucky to speak of or to another Elf as if they were nameless. If, for any reason, a Silvan Elf did not know another's name, they would loan them one—even if it were a straightforward, temporary one like Athal. It did feel more natural and Elvish to refer to him by a name, though his true one remained unknown. 

He nodded, waiting for her to go on. She hesitated, though she was not a person given to indecision. She had seen much horror in her life, and had acted unwaveringly during the worst situations imaginable. That she was slow to speak gave him pause. "What is his condition now?" he asked, patiently.

"We gave Athal much healing, and stopped the bleeding inside. He must have pushed himself too far. Now he's resting, at ease. He's grown much calmer. I heard he spoke for you, but he still will not speak to us. He paces like an animal in a cage."

"Has he presented you with any problems?"

"He does not show ill intent or make a move to harm us. He is only silent." Another pause, though it was nearly undetectable this time. "We washed him, and we found the source of his pain."

"What is it?"

"My lord, he bears a great wound."

Thranduil frowned. The Elf—Athal—had been caked with filth, but surely a bleeding wound would have been visible, if only by the blood it shed. 

She held her small hands over her chest, pressed together. "It is an old wound, though the mark of it is dark and angry. But it is directly over his heart. It is as if a great spear pierced him through—leaving another scar on his back where it emerged." 

Beside him, Galion gave a low, wordless murmur of surprise. Thranduil made no sound, but the full import of her words washed over him like cold water.

"It would have destroyed his heart, my lord, a blow like that."

"I understand your meaning." A great spear driving in, propelled by a powerful force. Many Elves had died so, in so many different battles. It was a significant revelation, but it did not provide a clear solution to the mystery as a whole.

"Yes. He should not be alive," she said. That was at the core of it. An Elf who should not be living yet lived, and had come among them without explanation or identity. 

"No one could have survived such an injury," he agreed.

"Yet Athal lives. I listened to his heart, but—"

"He has a heartbeat?"

"He does, my lord, but in the first moment I listened, I heard something very strange."

"Strange in what way?"

She came closer, lowering her already soft voice. "There was… a music playing. I do not know how else to explain it. It was for but a moment, and it faded so quickly, I thought I might have imagined it."

"You likely did not," said Thranduil. "Music… of what kind?"

"A brief surge, of horns and pipes playing. It was like—an announcement. I felt it was trying to tell me something."

Music often accompanied workings of great power. Music was at the heart of everything, of life and death. "Did you like the sound of it?"

She nodded emphatically. "My lord, it was so beautiful—" Her dark eyes were shining at the memory of it. Just the memory of the briefest moment of this music was enough to bring her to tears.

An Elf with music playing in his heart. A heart that should not, by any rights, have been beating. A heart pierced through by a spear. An Elf who should be dead, but yet lived—and had the strength to rip the great spiders into pieces in his wood. "And you think this old wound poses him no threat?"

"I confess, I can't be sure. I have never seen anything like this before, in all my years as a healer. I thought you might know what to do."

Not only was he the king, but he was much older and had once lived in Doriath, so she appealed to him as one who knew more of enchantments, but he did not understand the situation any better than she did. "I wish I did."

"I healed the hurts I could, but I did not know what else I could do about the great wound. He lives with it, so maybe it's no threat to him. Or, as some magic must have remade his heart, it could be that it's temporary in nature."

Only one power he knew could mend a heart that had been torn to pieces: the will of the Valar. Thranduil, as a child, had understood Oropher's disdain for Menegroth as a deep love of trees and stars and a dislike of living below ground. As an adult, he had come to understand Oropher's underlying resentment better. It was the Ainur Oropher mistrusted, though he would not speak of that so openly. The Ainur had brought the Elves forth and coaxed great numbers of them to the Uttermost West. Some Elves still resented them for their interference, believing that it had brought division and strife to the Elven Clans.

Thranduil did not know how to feel about the possibility that the direct influence of the Valar had touched his lands. Like Oropher before him, he had fought to keep his lands free and independent from any outside influence. Yet if the Valar had decided to interfere, he was powerless to stop them. He could only decide how to react. "I will see him and speak to him, if you think it will not tax him too much."

"Athal is well enough for visitors, but as I said, he refuses to speak."

"He did speak to me before. He might do so again." Thranduil had no firm reason for that belief, but it persisted. He had said so little: _Killing. Evil._ Yet a connection had formed between them, and they had communicated without words as well, in expression and gestures. By the end of their encounter, Thranduil had become convinced that the stranger, for all his air of wildness, did have the awareness of an Elf. His consciousness was Elven, but there was something cast over him to obscure it, like a shadow or a grief. 

Thranduil descended through corridors of stone, once again flanked by solicitous attendants who would not allow him to go alone. Spennel was not far behind. Galion also insisted on accompanying him. He had not forgiven himself for not being with Thranduil when he'd encountered the stranger the night before. He would not be dissuaded from staying by him now. Thranduil suspected his people were as protective of him as he was of them. The loss of Oropher had struck them deeply, too. They must fear losing a second king. Losing the first had been hard enough.

His people understood the Elven bonds of kinship as well as he did. By the very nature of the Elven people, they should not have had to fear another of their kind. The fact remained that Athal was a Gódhel, and Elves of that clan showed themselves rarely in his wood. The people of this realm had never forgotten their losses in the war, and how the Gódhellim had failed them then.

Thranduil made the others stand back when he reached the storeroom. He did not wish to crowd Athal. They drew back warily, but obediently. If this Gódhel were to pose him some threat, Thranduil did not doubt that he would suffer for it. He hoped that would not be the case. He had his white knife with him again, but he did not expect to use it. Athal had proved himself to be—truly strange, but had made no move Thranduil had deemed violent. The healers had the same accounting of him: outlandish, but not vicious.

When Thranduil opened the door to the storeroom, he found the stranger not pacing, but seated on the bedroll the healers must have brought for him to rest on, with his legs crossed. He had been transformed by care, barely recognizable as the filthy figure of the night before. Every last particle of dirt had been carefully removed from his body. He was so changed, Thranduil might have believed this was a different Elf, if his great stature were not so distinctive. That had not changed. In fact, it was more evident, now that the dirt had been removed and the light poured off of him freely.

His eyes, too, still belonged to last night's wild Elf: strikingly pale and luminous. Once again, their gaze fixed upon him as he entered. As Spennel had said, he was visibly calmer. He no longer thrashed or cast about wildly, as if seeking something that was not there. The healers had removed the ancient rags that had clung to him. They had done their best to find him new clothes, but the clean garments they had found with such short notice were almost laughably small on his large form. The sleeves of his shirt and legs of his pants were so short, it looked like he was wearing the clothes of a child. Fortunately, he had been able to cover himself adequately, with Thranduil's own cloak.

Yes, Thranduil had left it behind last night for him to rest his head on, and the stranger wore it now. It was a cloak of deep brown, with a pale trim. Its dark exterior was decorated all over by one large tree with widespread branches. The tree's leaves had been embroidered individually and painstakingly, in threads of different colors: brown, copper, red, gold, pale green and dark green, to represent the leaves of different times of the year, displayed all at once. One branch had no leaves at all, to represent the deepest winter. A cloak of all seasons.

Thranduil could not help himself; his eyes sought for any sign of the great wound Spennel had spoken of. He caught sight of a trace of darker, raised skin, just above the neckline of the too-small tunic Athal wore. He spared it only a glance. He did not want to stare. His gaze returned to Athal's eyes, and the fall of hair that framed them. 

Thranduil's people were nothing if not thorough. The stranger's hair had been washed, brushed and braided. It proved to be perhaps his most arresting feature. It was as pale as his eyes, and it shone silver. It was unlike the pure silver hair that could be found among certain bloodlines of his own people. It was almost white, but within its paleness, Thranduil caught sight of other colors faintly gleaming, surfacing in the light only to quickly be supplanted by another hue, giving Athal's hair an air of shifting opalescence. It seemed to stir, as if moved by a breeze, although he and the air were both still.

"I see you're feeling better," said Thranduil. "I've been told your condition has improved. Do you remember me?"

He was watching Thranduil as intently as he had the night before. He must have been aware of the others gathered outside, but he did not glance toward them once. A predator would watch his prey in that manner. Thranduil kept his hand clear of his knife hilt and held that pale, searching gaze. He allowed no tension into his bearing, waiting. He had felt the odd certainty that the stranger would speak to him, but as the moments stretched out, he felt a little less sure.

Finally, the stranger opened his mouth. From it poured the sweet, distinctive voice of a nightingale. This was no chaos of birdsong, but one unified, controlled series of whistles and trills, rising to great heights and descending into soft murmurs. He had never heard such an intricate song from any nightingale. Was the stranger responding in the birds' language? Thranduil could not understand the tongue of nightingales, so he did not know, but when the stranger had finished his song, he clicked his teeth and grinned, looking oddly satisfied with himself.

Thranduil heard gasps from his attendants following this display. Like himself, they must have been reminded of Melian and Lúthien. Some of those with him were of Doriath as well, though most were of Silvan extraction. There was a deep discordance in a Gódhel addressing him so, though the song itself was beautiful. Thranduil sensed he was dealing with someone who did not take things as seriously as he should—or else did not have the sense to avoid disrespect. "Can you speak Elvish?" He knew from experience that Athal was capable of it, but he meant the words as a suggestion.

Athal smiled, waiting precisely long enough to make Thranduil doubt before he answered, "I speak." His voice was still rough from damage and disuse. He spoke slowly, as if uncertain of his words, but he was more understandable than he had been last night.

"You seem much improved. I am Thranduil son of Oropher, King of Eryn Galen, and you find yourself within my realm."

"Your realm? I don't know it. Or you."

His manner of speaking was not quite rude, but neither was it what Thranduil would deem polite. He did not judge him too harshly for his bluntness, as he was not completely recovered. Now that he spoke more regularly and in full sentences—however brief—his way of speaking was easier to place. Thranduil had heard others speak Edhellen in that way: those of his people who had lived to the north of Doriath, beyond the fence. That had been long ago, but his memories of childhood were clear. "Who are you?" he asked. He was mindful of the fact that his query about the stranger's origins had caused him such distress when they last spoke, but the question had to be asked.

There was another long pause. The stranger frowned. His gaze did not waver, but it took on an inward look, as though he were searching within himself for the answer. "I don't know," said the stranger at last, pale eyes wide. "I hoped you would tell me."

Thranduil stared at him, half-expecting more laughter, but no laughter came. Instead, there was a deeply perplexed expression on the stranger's face, and Thranduil decided he was absolutely in earnest. 

"You don't know your own name?"

"I don't remember anything. Except you."

Thranduil had not been prepared for this statement, but Athal made it so boldly, without a trace of embarrassment. It was possible he was incapable of embarrassment, for all that it had shown itself in his remarks and manner so far. "You remember me?"

"I remember yesterday," said Athal, his evident confusion punctuated by a sudden grin. His teeth were so bright. He started to laugh. Thranduil tensed, worried that the laughter would possess him again. It did not. It trailed off, as laughter should. "You woke me from a dream. I don't remember anything before I saw your face."


	5. Remembrance of Things Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the identity of our Mystery Elf is finally, definitively revealed.

"You remember nothing else? What of the spiders you fought?" It was unusual for Elves to lose their memories, and Thranduil feared Athal had run afoul of a dark enchantment, in addition to the influence of the Valar. The Greenwood had long remained untouched by shadow, but a shadow had returned to the world, and it was rising. It was closing in, and spiders were not the only danger it brought. Thranduil would have liked to believe that the powers of evil had been decisively banished in the past, but he had to consider the evidence. He had seen his people suffer and die.

"Spiders?" Athal's eyes narrowed in puzzlement, widening in realization an instant later. "Ah—so that wasn't a dream. Funny."

"Funny? You find it amusing?"

"Isn't it? They should be wiped out, after all."

Thranduil's impression that Athal was less serious than he would have liked deepened as Athal continued to express himself. "So they should," he said coldly, "as they do not belong where they have taken up residence. But killing them on such a grand scale has only angered them and put us all at risk of a full-scale attack."

"Would it not be better to draw them out in numbers to eliminate them en masse?"

The very idea was infuriating, and Thranduil snapped, "We do not have the forces for that. You do realize, you have come into this realm with no knowledge of it, and even less awareness of my people and our situation. And you think to give me advice on strategy?" He did not like to raise his voice within hearing of his people, but his frustration with the consequences of Athal's actions surged, and he forgot himself.

Athal recoiled, as if Thranduil's words had a physical force. His light dimmed as if the gravity of his position had struck him anew. He was an Elf with no known name, in a kingdom that was unfamiliar to him, seated in a cold, stone storeroom with no possessions of his own. Nothing but ill-fitting borrowed clothes and Thranduil's cloak. "No—you're right. I spoke without thinking. I killed the spiders without thinking. All I could think to do—was kill."

There was a sorrow in the words, and such a loneliness. Thranduil was not without sympathy. Athal was not thinking clearly in his current state. He could be forgiven a moment's rashness. Thranduil softened his tone. "I can see that you have suffered much. As I tried to tell you earlier, when you were unwell, you need not fear. We intend to help you, as much as we can."

"You would help me?"

"We are Elves," said Thranduil. It was self-evident, but that was the only explanation he felt was needed, from one Elf to another. He had his misgivings, yes, but he would not make a poor showing of the hospitality of the Greenwood. These were dangerous times, and it was wise to be wary, but great danger meant that his fellow Elves were in greater need of aid.

It occurred to Thranduil that he might seek advice from Imladris or Lothlórien. It was possible that Elrond or Galadriel might hold vital pieces of information he lacked, knowledge that could solve this mystery. This Godhél was closer kin to them than to him, though Thranduil could not say _how_ close that kinship might be, and that troubled him. 

Thranduil entertained the idea of sending a messenger to the west or southwest, but no—this Elf had come to his Greenwood. Like Oropher before him, he preferred to avoid appealing to outsiders, and he would not send a group of his people so far when the spiders were abroad, not unless the need was clear and great. He was in the long habit of solving his own problems, and he saw no reason to do otherwise here. Athal was an Elf, not a threat.

However, he had been stymied in his efforts to obtain more knowledge. He had wanted to learn whatever he could by questioning Athal, but when Athal knew so little of himself, an interview was of doubtful benefit. "What is it that you do remember? Tell, me even if it seems like it was a dream."

"I do remember the spiders. Many of them. Fighting them And other than that—" He paused, tilting his head to one side. "More killing."

"Killing what?"

Thranduil did not like the length of the pause that followed, but finally, a shrug shifted Athal's shoulders. "The Enemy. It must be. Servants of Evil. I was in darkness. I sought them out to destroy them."

This was not a goal without merit, but it was unlike an Elf to set out alone, only to seek out enemies endlessly. "Where were you doing battle? You have not been in my wood so long." Long enough, and possibly too long, but he must have been somewhere else before. He was not suddenly conjured from nothingness.

"I don't know. I remember mountains, rivers..." 

The details were so vague as to be meaningless. "You cannot have spent your whole existence killing. Do you remember anything earlier than that? Before the fighting—Where did you live? Who were you with?"

Athal's manner and expression changed instantly. He shuddered, his lips parting, the color draining from his face, his eyes unfocusing. Thranduil had been asking again about _where Athal had been before_ , which was the question that had caused Athal so much pain during their last conversation. There was something in the question that troubled him so deeply, having a greater effect on him than the question of _who_ he was.

According to Spennel, some time before Athal had waged his wild war against the spiders, he had been within the grasp of death. Existence without his body could be what so disturbed him, or the violent act that had taken his life. His revival, however it had come to pass, must not have freed him from that anguish. His revival—was it a curse or a blessing? Thranduil did not like to see any Elf in such pain, and he certainly did not wish to cause it.

"Where—" breathed Athal. His voice was as altered as his features. It had grown so much rougher and less Elven.

Thranduil waited, as this seemed like the beginning of a greater question, and he needed to hear what Athal had to say.

"Where—is it?" Athal managed to finish, but his words illuminated nothing. 

"What are you looking for?"

Athal did not answer, did not seem to hear the question. "Is it here?" he demanded. His silver light was colder. He was agitated: his fingers twitching, his pupils dilated. His voice was so low, but it was the only sound in the silent storeroom. Not one of the attendants so much as stirred. There was an fraught feeling in the air, and Thranduil was reminded again of the expectant hush before a storm broke. 

"No," said Thranduil. His tone was firm, allowing for no question. He was not sure what Athal was asking about, but the chance that anything sought by this Elf from a lost age could be found in the Greenwood was negligible. Also, Thranduil did not like the look in Athal's eyes. "It is not here."

"Ah…" Athal let out a long sigh, which could have been from relief or disappointment. He fell silent again, and the feeling of tension in the room eased. 

Thranduil changed the subject. "You were singing earlier. Why was that?"

The question had the desired result of bringing Athal back to himself. His gaze refocused. "Oh, that—I felt like it. It came to me, so I said it."

"What did it mean?"

Athal flashed his bright smile again, as if fully recovered from his momentary lapse. What a changeable mood. It was as if he did not recall how grim and disturbed he had been, moments before. "That I was happy to see you, Thranduil, son of Oropher."

Thranduil was taken aback by Athal's bluntness. "I see." He would have to take Athal's word for the birdsong's meaning. "I am glad you feel so welcomed." 

Now that Athal had a name—of sorts—and was behaving relatively rationally, Thranduil faced another dilemma. Leaving him in the storeroom indefinitely would violate every known law of Elven hospitality. His people would consider it both discourteous and unlucky. Thranduil did not want to cause undue distress to either his subjects or his guest, but he was not at ease with Athal's presence. That lapse, and the tense question, _Is it here?_ had chilled him. There was something about Athal that struck him as unsafe.

Athal, visibly drained, pressed a hand briefly to his heart. The gesture may have been conscious or unconscious, but it reminded Thranduil of how much he did not know of his guest's condition, or how it might deteriorate. He glanced down, toward the trace of scar he could see. A great scar, and one of a pair. Thranduil envisioned the matching mark on his back. Elves did not scar easily, or from any slight wound. 

When his gaze returned to Athal's face, Athal's knowing look awaited him. "I'll have proper quarters prepared for you," said Thranduil. "You'll stay with us until you're well enough to depart." Thranduil would not give him free run of the halls, and he would keep him under guard, but he could not leave him in this cellar. 

"Will I? That does not sound like a suggestion."

He was the king. Athal was not one of his subjects, but he was within Thranduil's halls, and therefore, Thranduil's concern. "I am not convinced that you're well enough to travel, and I would prefer you do no more killing in my lands without my leave."

Athal exhaled deeply before nodding. He must have felt his weariness anew, and Thranduil considered how, in this Elf, such a great killing strength was combined with such a deep weakness. As if to underscore this contrast Athal suddenly swayed where he sat. Spennel appeared at Thranduil's side, quickly moving past him to reach her patient. Before he could keel over, she placed a hand on him fearlessly, to steady him. "My lord, I will look after him while rooms are prepared for him," she said firmly. This was no disrespect on her part. Where a healer and her patient were concerned, her will and actions had authority above those of the king. 

Athal's manner softened along with his expression; he was almost docile as Spennel tended to him. A good sign. Rare was the Elf who would disrespect a healer. She carried her healers' kit with its medicines and tools, and she opened it to select healing and calming herbs for her patient. Thranduil watched her for a few moments, but when he glanced at her patient, he found Athal staring at him again. His features had lost their expression, without losing their intensity. He was all focus and no definable feeling, unless acute awareness could be considered a feeling. 

"You will remain with us for a time, but I expect you to behave with the same respect we offer you," said Thranduil. He took his leave, departing with a few of the attendants and guards. The rest remained with Spennel. Athal's uncertain health was concerning, but it would give Thranduil an excuse to leave a guard posted at his door. Obviously, even if not for his uncertain origins, he could not be left alone—for his own good and the good of the Elves who lived here. 

"My lord, that Athel," said Galion, who was keeping pace with him. "He must be—

"I know it. He must be an Elf of great power, one of those who saw the Trees." Such Elves were relatively few in number in this age. Far fewer of the Gódhellim had such fair hair. They were much more likely to be dark. Galadriel had golden hair, and her brothers had as well—but all three brothers had died, and not one of them had been pierced by a spear. 

_And that question he asked… how cold I felt in that moment._

"Galion, bring me all the writings we have on the subject of the Gódhellim. I will study them in my chambers."

"Of course, my lord." During the war, Galion had been at his side always, as his chief attendant. He did not have a warlike nature, yet he had been as brave during the days of the Last Alliance as any other warrior. He had saved Thranduil's life more than once. Galion cared little for warlike duties these days, preferring the warmth and comfort of the halls. Thranduil would rather see him at his ease. He remembered too well the image of Galion's face, stained with blood and contorted with pain. He would not see that sight again.

In need of refreshment after a disquieting conversation, Thranduil returned to the woods. What Elf had not sought the forest depths when in need of revitalization? The more he learned about the stranger, the more his reservations grew restless, troubling him with their low voices, whispering possibilities. The soft voices of the trees were more comforting and reassuring. They reminded him, as they always did, that life and creation were good—were meant to be a source of joy. They were worth protecting, even if the cost was personal sacrifice. Thranduil greeted the trees where they stood in the forest, spreading their arms. The Enemy had always hated the woods. Even when he used a forest for his own ends, his ultimate goal would always be to destroy it utterly, and all the green growing things and vital animals within it.

He did not wish to think of the Enemy, so why did those thoughts come to mind? Yes, because of the shadow, no matter how far away it felt on a day like this. The afternoon was growing late, and the light was a rich gold, falling through the leaves. Thranduil, reminded of the weight of his duties in spite of the light, was considering returning to his halls when he heard singing, very near at hand. Immediately recognizing the song of a nightingale, he turned, in time to see the small, brown and white bird flying toward him. 

He raised his hand, and the bird alighted on his finger. Thranduil smiled, as it put back its head, opened its beak, and sang again, full-throated and melodious, a pure song of passionate feeling. He wondered, as he had last night, if the bird had been drawn by Athal's song. This day, Athal had sung only a nightingale's song, and—as if on cue, a nightingale had appeared to greet him.

The male birds sang for want of love, and this one likely wished to attract a mate. As for what Athal had been singing about, Thranduil had only the stranger's word for it. _I was happy to see you._ An odd thing to say, but he was an odd Elf. Thranduil sighed, and the bird sang again, as if its will was not to attract a female, but to cheer him. If so, it had the desired effect. 

All throughout the wood, animals were seeking mates, and the trees were in flower. Thranduil had been too preoccupied of late to enjoy the springtime as he usually would. He had a child to care for, and people to protect. He now had a difficult stranger to consider, as well. How sweet it would be to simply sit in the sun for hours and consider the color and scent of the flowers. To sing to the trees and hear their answering song. That was how life was meant to be. 

That was how Legolas experienced springtime. He loved the trees and flowers so. No matter how dire the current state of the Greenwood was, a child's joy in it was still pure and untrammeled, and Thranduil took delight in seeing all the seasons through his son's eyes. Perhaps instead of returning to his duties, he should return to the halls to find Legolas. Legolas would surely be overjoyed to go on a walk. Thranduil turned, intending to do exactly that, when his ears caught a familiar sound, a ways off. It was the unmistakable music of his son's laughter.

Thranduil hurried toward the sound, and reached its source to find Legolas playing with Maeven while another member of his personal guard looked on attentively. They were very close to the halls, in a meadow bright with flowers, and Legolas was sitting up on Maeven's shoulders. His high seat must have inspired his laughter, but once he spied Thranduil with his sharp eyes, Legolas stopped laughing and started to wave excitedly.

"Ada, it's your turn to be the tree," he informed Thranduil once he reached the meadow.

"Yes, my lord," agreed Maeven, "we need another tree."

Thranduil smiled, sensing that Maeven had served as a tree for some time now. "Very well, if that is to be my duty, I will carry it out." He stood still, and Legolas darted down from Maeven's shoulders and quickly climbed up Thranduil's robe and onto his shoulders. He carefully grabbed handfuls of Thranduil's hair to hold on to, although, as a nimble Elfling, he could keep his balance easily without holding on to anything.

"I like you better, you're taller," Legolas whispered gravely into his ear. "Though I like Maeven, too."

"I'm sure Maeven understands. It's important for a tree to be tall."

Maeven nodded, "Yes, my lord does make a better tree. You're right, Legolas."

Eventually, even Ada was not a tall enough tree, and Legolas graduated to actual trees, which were taller still. Thranduil and Maeven ascended into the branches along with him. They kept close to him, concerned for his safety, but they let him climb as high as he wished. They were confident in his abilities, as well as in theirs to protect him. He was old enough and strong enough to climb as well as any adult Elf, and he had a squirrel's enthusiasm and aptitude for it, scurrying lightly along the branches. Like any Elfling of the forest, he would have climbed trees well into the night, if allowed to. Young elflings, of course, could not be allowed to do any such thing.

Legolas was more tired than he realized when they plucked him from the branches. He protested briefly, but soon decided he was happy to be carried and curled up in his father's arms. He remained there, content, until Thranduil set him down in his chair at the dinner table. There, he uncurled instantly, gaze seeking out the coming food.

There were times when the dining hall was full, chairs crowded with relatives, friends, and other varied residents of the hall and the surrounding woods, but this was a relatively quiet meal. Thranduil and Legolas' dining companions consisted only of those Elves who had been assigned to Legolas' care. Thranduil was in the mood for quiet. He wanted to enjoy the company of his son and the peace of a simple meal, before returning to his duties and considering the question of Athal.

He was enjoying that peace thoroughly when Legolas suddenly glanced up from his meal and asked excitedly, "Ada, is it true there's a great warrior staying here?" 

Thranduil set down his glass of wine. "What do you mean, Legolas?" he asked, although it was fearfully easy to guess which warrior Legolas was referring to.

"I heard the guards say there was an Elf who killed a _hundred_ spiders. And he came from far away. And he's living in the cellars."

 _Little Elves have big ears_ , as the saying went. And it was true; it was difficult to keep secrets from children with such keen hearing. There was no one to blame. Legolas was an exceptionally curious child, and prone to showing up where he was not expected, especially when he led his attendants on a chase. It would be better to act as if the stranger was commonplace; that would incite less curiosity. "Oh, yes. You heard correctly. There is a traveler who is staying with us temporarily."

"Did he kill a hundred spiders?"

"He did eliminate a number of them," agreed Thranduil. He did not want to frighten Legolas by telling him of the dangers of what Athal had done, but he also had no desire to lie to his son. The truth was, they did not know how many spiders Athal had killed, his rampage had been so extensive.

"When I'm older, I'll kill a hundred spiders."

"I don't doubt that you will make a fine warrior." So Thranduil said, but his heart sank. After the war, he had dared to dream of a future in which children did not have to watch their parents go off to war—and later, go to war themselves. He had watched Oropher depart to fight in great battles. Later, he had fought by his side. Those were not happy memories.

"I'll kill two hundred spiders," said Legolas, revising his grand total for no apparent reason.

Thranduil would spare Legolas having to fight in any battles, if it were within his power. "For now, I'd rather you focus on your studies."

"Yes, Ada." He sounded so crestfallen, that if they were not at the dinner table, he would have reached over to ruffle Legolas' hair. Legolas' disappointment was short-lived; he brightened almost immediately and asked, "Can I meet the warrior?"

The thought made Thranduil instantly tense. His reaction was a matter of instinct rather than thought, but considering the question rationally did not increase his ease. "He needs to rest after his labors. Better not to disturb him."

"Can I see him after he's rested?"

"That will depend on him," said Thranduil, still honest, if not fully forthcoming.

Legolas was relatively satisfied with this answer and the possibilities it left open, so he did not ask again. He had a few more questions and a few more comments to make on the subject of his future triumphs, but Thranduil was successfully able to change the subject to Legolas' own tree-climbing adventures. Legolas was more than happy to discuss his feelings about trees. It was Thranduil's mind that lingered on the subject of Athal. He could not banish the stranger from his thoughts, and true peace did not return to him during his meal.

By the time Thranduil returned to his chambers, he found that Galion had dutifully assembled all the relevant texts on the subject of the Gódhellim for him. There were a number of them. His library was rich in texts relating to the Gódhellim—and not only those exiles, but the Goloðrim as a whole, the entire clan—thanks to Elrond's generosity. Elrond had offered many texts to him, on a wide range of subjects, either because he had them in duplicate, or because he thought Thranduil and his people would find them of interest. The whole of his gift had amounted to a vast treasure of learning and lore, but it had been given freely, with nothing asked in return. As expected of a descendant of Lúthien. 

Sorting through the wealth of literature reminded him that Elrond might help him in this situation, but again, his preference for independence and the great distance between his halls and Imladris made him dismiss the idea. It was very possible he would find the needed information in these books and scrolls and other aged sources. 

Much that was contained within the texts he already knew, but he read them again, thoroughly. There was always a possibility he could have missed something, or that some small detail he had discounted on his first reading would take on new significance in his current situation. Eventually, he was drawn to a text that involved Elrond himself: a study of his lineage. Its lengthy title was _Of the Lineage of Elrond Peredhel, Including Also His Further Kindred_. 

Thranduil could guess why Elrond had sent him this volume, as it was lavish and descriptive in its praise of him, in a way he did not think Elrond would have enjoyed. Yet Elrond had not been so impolite as to dispose of this copy of the book. He had sent it as a gift, instead. 

Although Elrond was of Thranduil's own people, he was also descended from the Gódhellim, on his father's side. Of the line of Thingol on one side, and the line of Finwë on the other: a remarkable ancestry. This made a study of his lineage useful in this case, as it dealt with many Elves that might have a connection to the Godhél currently in Thranduil's keeping. 

The text was florid at times, but he noted no inaccuracies. It was the flamboyance of the text itself that kept him reading, not because he enjoyed the style, but because it included details other writers might have dismissed as superfluous. The author, who was obviously one of the Goloðrim himself, focused on that side of the family with a partiality that was useful in this case. Thranduil lingered on the pages that digressed at length on the subject of the house of Finwë. 

Particularly relevant were the elegant line drawings included in the text. Thranduil, who had never seen most Elves of Finwë's house, was no authority on how accurate the likenesses were, but the drawing of Elrond at the beginning of the text had resembled him somewhat. It was promising.

The author discussed Finwë with great and protracted respect, and possibly devoted more words to the subject of his first wife, Miriel. This was one of the title's _Further Kindred_ , as Elrond was not a descendant of Miriel, but of Finwë's second wife, Indis. Finwë was remarkable among Elves for many reasons, one of those being that he had married twice. 

Despite that, Miriel would be considered a relative of Elrond by any Elven standard. The enthusiastic author devoted not one, but three paragraphs to the subject of Miriel's hair alone. How it shone silver. How unusual that was for one of her people. The way it shimmered, and the iridescent colors hidden within the silver, surfacing as she turned her head in the light. Miriel was famed for her embroidery and weaving, and the author went on to claim that her hair was said to be a tapestry in its own right. Faint, fleeting images could be glimpsed within the shining strands, of both the present and the past. 

Thranduil heard his own heart beating very clearly. It was making itself felt within his chest. He turned the pages, until he saw exactly what he expected to find: a drawing of Fëanor, Miriel's only child. Fëanor's portrait encompassed an entire page. Thranduil was not surprised. The Goloðrim loved to write about him, and had filled numberless books with descriptions of his works and his actions. Thranduil's feelings toward him were not so awed. There was one thing he thought of when he saw that face: Fëanor had killed Thranduil's own kin, the Teleri of Aman. He scowled, wishing the nightingale could return to his hand, to comfort him with its song. 

It was one of the greatest, deepest, and oldest laws of Elvenkind: Elves did not greet each other with violence. For an Elf to kill another Elf—that was one of the greatest atrocities imaginable. Fëanor, the only child of Miriel, had been the first to commit such an act. Until he had raised his sword and drawn Elven blood, his crime had been unheard of. To Thranduil's mind, that horror eclipsed the good he had done, and even the sight of his fair face was an ill omen. 

Thranduil skimmed the words describing Fëanor and his works. They were not without criticism, but it kept company with ample praise. He remained unsurprised at the discovery that Fëanor's wife and seven sons were also described at length. Thranduil had not picked up this book by chance. A suspicion had already taken root in his heart. It had continued to grow, hour by hour. He had not wanted to allow it to bloom, for the thought filled him with dread. 

The drawings of Fëanor's sons were all plausible likenesses. Among the seven, there was one with fair hair. Thranduil studied the sketch of this Son of Fëanor with care. Was it familiar? Yes, there was something recognizable about the eyes, in particular. Very slowly, Thranduil read through the portion of the text accompanying this drawing. _His hair was said by some to resemble closely that of his grandmother Miriel, so much so that—_. Thranduil stopped reading. This book contained the most detailed description Thranduil had ever read on the subject of Miriel's hair, so the author did not repeat its rapt description, but let this single reference to it stand. It was a description that reminded Thranduil far too much of the strange Elf he had taken in. The Son of Fëanor said to possess such unusal hair was Turcafinwë Tyelkormo, known in Thranduil's tongue as Celegorm the Fair.

Celegorm.

He had been taught the languages of birds and beasts, and could surely sing like a bird. He was a hunter with an immense killing strength, and he had been born in Valinor, in the Elvenhome, so far away. An Elf of great power, with a light upon him. He would speak Edhellen like one who had lived north of Doriath, because that was where he had lived, for a time.

Celegorm, of all Elves, would be likely to ask that cold, quiet, and dangerous question: _Where is it?_ He was looking for something. 

_What if he had not believed me when I said we did not have that thing?_

Thranduil sat motionless at his desk until his hand began to ache. He looked down upon it, where it rested on the smooth surface of the desk. His hand had formed a fist. His fingers were curled so tightly that they had turned white, and they hurt. Thranduil felt a deep anger. It burned in him like a flame, a fire blazing in his heart where the suspicion had grown tall and finally bloomed. He did not want to believe that Celegorm was currently within his halls, but too many signs pointed to his identity. Thranduil had never heard of another Elf who matched that description so precisely, so unusual among his people and singular among his brothers. 

Like his father, and like all the sons of Fëanor, Celegorm had violated the sacred law of their people. A Kinslayer. _Celegorm is dead_ , Thranduil told himself, but that was no reassurance. Athal had also been killed, according to all signs and the word of the Silvan Elves' great healer. Like Celegorm, Athal had died violently, in battle. Thranduil had never heard an exact description of Celegorm's death. Those who had been present at the battle had either died or had not told their stories in such detail. He could well have been killed by a spear. There was nothing to say he had not been.

Thranduil did think of violence, but he would never, under any circumstances, stoop to the level of Fëanor and his sons. It was not that he considered killing the Elf—not for a moment. He thought instead of driving him out with all haste and severity, heedless of whether he was well or ill. 

He rose to his feet. How could he rest, with that beast in his home? Thranduil had allowed him in himself, into the halls that housed his people and his own son. _My son—!_ No, there could be no rest or ease for him anywhere, while that Elf was near. He swept through his door and out into the corridor beyond.


End file.
